


Everything Will (Not) Be Okay

by DaftPunk_DeLorean



Series: Unadulterated Sadness and Angst [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Feels, Bruce Feels, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Tony, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Tony Feels, Tony Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1739207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaftPunk_DeLorean/pseuds/DaftPunk_DeLorean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce didn’t want to leave: he wasn’t even sure he was going to. He’d packed and unpacked so often in the time that he and Tony had been sharing a bed, that it was almost a joke between them. He lived in fear that he would hurt Tony, and felt constantly on the knife’s edge of running, but Tony always pulled him back in, reeled him to their bed with tender forgiveness and honeyed words, reassuring him that everything would be okay. </p><p>Until the day that he actually <em>did</em> hurt Tony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Will (Not) Be Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a tumblr angst drabble for the prompt "Bruce/Tony, You don't have to stay."

Bruce stared at the book in his hands, a dog-eared favorite that Tony gave him when they first got together.

When everything was okay. 

Tony had written a sweet little message on the inside cover, that had smudges around it from how many times Bruce fondly ran a thumb over the words. He debated internally; take the book with him, or leave it behind with the rest of the memories. He was afraid of it reminding him of everything he’d lost. He was afraid that if he didn’t take it, he might forget everything he had.

Bruce carefully wrapped the book in a soft shirt, and tucked it in his bag. 

He didn’t want to leave; he wasn’t even sure he was going to. He’d packed and unpacked so often in the time that he and Tony had been sharing a bed, that it was almost a joke between them. He lived in fear that he would hurt Tony, and felt constantly on the knife’s edge of running, but Tony always pulled him back in, reeled him to their bed with tender forgiveness and honeyed words, reassuring him that everything would be okay. 

Until the day that he actually _did_ hurt Tony.

He was moody and angry that day, the other guy simmering under his skin, looking for any reason to lash out. Tony happened to be in the path when Bruce finally snapped, and not even over anything Tony said or did; the man was just standing there in his pajama pants, searching for coffee. Bruce’s temper exploded over some innocent statement, and he shoved Tony. Shoved him so hard that Tony stumbled back with a startled cry and betrayed eyes, and crashed into a glass coffee table.

That time, Tony was slower to lure Bruce back once he’d packed. And it wasn’t until weeks after the patchwork of stitches in Tony’s back had been taken out that Bruce was able to look him in the eyes again, and was relieved to see that warm forgiveness there, as Tony leaned in to kiss his forehead and tell him everything would be okay.

The second time it happened, they were in bed. Bruce’s usually tightly reigned control was slipping, and he bled his frustrations and anger out with every brutal pound into Tony’s ass, pinning him facedown with inhuman strength, his moans more like vicious snarls. Tony had cried out his safeword over and over, struggling and begging him to stop, and Bruce didn’t hear any of it. It wasn’t until he was finished and pulled out his come- and blood-covered cock, that he realized Tony was clutching weakly at the bedding, crying out in pain as he tried to pull himself away from Bruce.

Tony was too humiliated to see a doctor, and he lay in bed and cried silent tears, while Bruce slowly died inside as he stitched up his love’s most sensitive parts in the privacy of their home. He couldn’t pack then; Tony need help just walking to the bathroom, and couldn’t clean himself without help for weeks. And Tony slept in their enormous bed, curled away from him for a month after he’d fully healed, before he finally nuzzled against Bruce one lazy, warm, Sunday morning, and they made love again for the first time, and Tony kissed him and gazed at him with warm eyes and told him everything would be okay.

But he hadn’t let Bruce top him since.

This time, he’d had a nightmare. He was halfway to the Hulk at three in the morning, when he was awoken by a screech of pain followed by abrupt silence, and found that he’d back-handed Tony _through_ the wall. Bruce didn’t know why he didn’t pack and leave while Tony was in the hospital; maybe he thought it was cowardly, skipping out on Tony when he wasn’t there to have a say. Maybe Bruce thought Tony would stop him. Maybe… He wasn’t sure what he thought. Only that Tony had been back from the hospital for three days now, and was sleeping in a guest room, or his workshop. Bruce figured that was as clear a statement as he needed.

Bruce tucked another shirt around the beloved book in his duffel, and looked up when he heard the telltale sound Tony clearing his throat behind him. Bruce turned, and was surprised at what he saw. Tony was in an impeccable, dove gabardine suit, with a lovely lavender patterned tie and light blue shirt. It was armor, Tony’s suits, every bit as much as Iron Man. Every layer of bespoke wool that he donned kept everyone at arm’s length, and kept his own demons neatly wrapped in a silk-patterned bow with a pretty Windsor knot. 

Tony’s suit jacket was draped over his shoulders to accommodate the large cast from elbow to wrist of his left arm, and he moved stiffly, which told Bruce he was still wearing the back brace (and reminded him of the awful panic that burned his insides to ash when he thought Tony’s back was broken), and he leaned heavily on a cane. Bruce searched Tony’s eyes desperately.

They were shuttered and cold. 

“You’re leaving,” Tony said flatly, and Bruce had a sick feeling that it was more of a request than a question.

“Yes,” Bruce replied.

The silence hung in the air like the fetid stench of corpses, while Bruce waited for Tony to say he didn’t have to go.

Tony said nothing, but after several long moments, flicked a key to the bed, with a small tag attached, but made it clear he wouldn’t step any closer. 

“A penthouse apartment. So you have a place if your travels bring you back to Manhattan,” Tony said quietly, all his usual banter and constant motion subdued.

“Tony…” Bruce murmured, his chest feeling like it was fracturing apart with all the apologies and regret that filled him.

“I’m taking the jet and leaving for Malibu today. I’ll be there for about a month on SI business. I need… I need you to be gone before I get back. Jarvis can arrange for any staff that you need to move your things,” Tony said, and his voice was still flat, as though he’d rehearsed this a dozen times in the mirror, trying to get it all out without breaking down.

Bruce was stunned, but even more than that, he burned with humiliation and shame. Of _course_ Tony wouldn’t tug the bag out of his hands this time with a twinkling grin and a poorly made cup of tea, only to surreptitiously unpack it later. Bruce hated himself for being so grandiosely self-important as to think that he deserved that again. He didn’t even deserve it any of the other times it happened. 

Bruce nodded stiffly, and returned to his bag, shoving things in with significantly less care, as he tried not to crumple to his knees. Tony remained in the doorway, watching, unmoving.

“You don’t have to stay…” Bruce mumbled, his face flushed and his fingertips trembling. “You don’t have to watch me pack.” He glanced at Tony, only to see him stiffen. 

“I wasn’t planning to,” Tony said, and turned as sharply as the braces and cane would allow. Bruce stared, and Tony paused at the threshold, turning his head to the side just enough that Bruce could see the tight crinkles around Tony’s weary eyes. 

“It’s not a matter of not caring, you know,” Tony said, and his voice dissolved to something that was saturated in agony. “It’s a matter of self preservation.”

Bruce tried to speak, and Tony was gone. He slowly turned back to his bag, and stared at it for a long time, feeling hollow and devastated as he tried to process his entire world crashing to its end right before his eyes. 

Finally he reached into the bag and pulled out the book. He read the loving inscription from Tony and ran his thumb over the words once more, before setting it aside and yanking the zip on his duffel shut hard enough to rip the fabric.

Everything will be okay, he told himself frantically, not believing a single word of the lie.

Everything will be...

...okay.

Bruce buried his face in his hands and wept.


End file.
